


the fool loses

by deadcourf



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Minor Character Deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8347678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcourf/pseuds/deadcourf
Summary: A clock ticking somewhere, the rhythm matching the pounding of your heart against your ribcage. Bodies throwing themselves to the pavement, hands covering eyes and knees kissing chests. Screams popping your eardrums, tears soaking your shirt. All of this in a whirlwind around you and you cannot make sense of the chaos. No sense of direction, no sense of reality.This is how they lost the war.





	

**Author's Note:**

> see notes at the end of the fic for french translations!

A clock ticking somewhere, the rhythm matching the pounding of your heart against your ribcage. Bodies throwing themselves to the pavement, hands covering eyes and knees kissing chests. Screams popping your eardrums, tears soaking your shirt. All of this in a whirlwind around you and you cannot make sense of the chaos. No sense of direction, no sense of reality.

This is how they lost the war.

-x-

Grantaire woke up that morning in a cold sweat. With his head by Joly’s elbow and his back flush against the wood flooring of the Musain, he thought about the night before.

There had been wine and laughing and plenty of arms thrown around plenty of shoulders. For him, one drink led to five, which led to ten, and the last thing he remembered was falling to the floor with Joly, their arms intertwined. They had been giggling about something or other that Enjolras had said while incredibly intoxicated, a privileged sight to see. But Grantaire supposed that, given last night was the eve of Armageddon, he could excuse Enjolras just this once.

Their sparingly-mellow leader, Grantaire noticed, had already awoken. Enjolras sat at the far end of the room, having sunk deeply into the chair by the door. His eyes were half-closed as he swept the room with his judgment. Grantaire thought he could quickly feign sleep before Enjolras could meet his gaze, but he was too late.

The marksman had found his target.

“ _ Lefou _ .” 

Enjolras’ voice was barely above a whisper, but Grantaire easily recognized the nickname he had been given months ago. Not one he had approved, mind you.

He managed to maneuver himself around the various limbs attached to the many Musain-goers that surrounded him. Those dance classes he had taken years ago, especially ballet, came in particularly handy. Finally, after resisting the urge to perform a pirouette once he reached Enjolras, Grantaire slumped into the chair beside his companion.

“Yes?” he murmured. “ _ Comment puis-je t’aider? _ ”

Enjolras hummed in response, nodding to the group that still lay asleep at their feet.

“What if…”

“No,” Grantaire snapped. “Don’t do that. Not today.”

“There’s always a chance, Grantaire, that something will go wrong. To ignore it would be foolish.”

With a huff, Enjolras slunk even deeper into the seat. The desperately devastated gloom in his eyes send a shiver down Grantaire’s spine. Such a form of despair was one he experienced often. Grantaire slid his chair closer to Enjolras’ and poked his shoulder. When Enjolras glanced up at him, he pulled a funny face, thinking the gesture would cheer up the usually wild blonde.

Although he made no claims as to knowing Enjolras in any way shape or form besides at a superficial level, Grantaire had no idea why he thought poking fun, literally, at Enjolras would be a practical move. The distaste in Enjolras’ grimace was palpable as he yanked his shoulder out of Grantaire’s reach.

“ _ Sois sérieux _ ,” he growled, all but one poke away from spitting at Grantaire’s feet.

A familiar pang of self-loathing stabbed at the scruffy man’s throat. He cleared it before bowing his head, trying to decide whether he wanted to even waste a response on Enjolras’ obvious dislike for him. But then he decided, no, he wasn’t going to allow Enjolras to step on him any longer. He wasn’t going to allow anyone to think he didn’t care about this goddamn war they were fighting any longer.

Grantaire lifted his chin ever so slightly, looking up at Enjolras through narrowed eyelids and lashes. “ _ Je suis farouche _ .”

This is how he won Enjolras’ heart.

-x-

Now he hunches over, kneeling on the hard pavement of the Rue des Grés, his head bowed so that his nose brushed against his blood-soaked pants. Grantaire lifts his chin ever so slight, looking over at the bodies fallen in the street. He counts them.

Eight. Eight bodies strewn on the sidewalk, tossed over the sewage grate, hanging over the railing of the Musain…

Grantaire catches his breath. His eyes focus on the reddened fingertips that hang low, connect them to the bruised wrists, trail up along the muddy arm and crooked elbow, until his eyes finally land on the face to which such a gracefully fallen body belongs.

He could recognize that tousle of blond hair anywhere.

Dry heaves wrack his body instantly. Doubled-over, his cheek pressed against the cold, wet pavement, Grantaire groans at the sharp pangs in his chest. That familiar self-loathing returns, but in a different, more twisted light. He thinks of the moment when Enjolras and the others ran back to the Musain, screaming and throwing furniture left and right at the enemy, those that had showered the street with bullets. He thinks of the choice he made to turn away from the fiery red jacket leading the people forward while he himself turned back. He thinks of the empty dumpster into which he had dove, making sure no one had seen him. 

He remembers the fear bubbling in his stomach, his hot breath creating condensation in the darkness, that same condensation sticking to his cheeks. Grantaire chokes on another dry heave upon remembering the frantic cries and hands slamming against the dumpster, upon remembering how he held fast to the doors, preventing anyone from coming in, from anyone finding him, a coward.

Another heave. And another. And another until he is no longer breathing, but choking and sobbing and crying out at the image of Enjolras’ dead body hanging over the rail of the Musain’s balcony.

Finally, he sucks in a deep, ragged breath.

Finally, he looks up at his leader in red.

_ Je suis désolé, ma lumière.  _

_ Je n'étais pas assez farouche. _

**Author's Note:**

> Lefou - from 'le fou' meaning 'the fool'  
> Comment puis-je t’aider? - How can I help you?  
> Sois sérieux. - Be serious.  
> Je suis farouche. - I am wild.  
> Je suis désolé, ma lumière. - I am sorry, my light.  
> Je n'étais pas assez farouche. - I was not wild enough.


End file.
